


like we're made of starlight

by ivyrobinson



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22380619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyrobinson/pseuds/ivyrobinson
Summary: a collection of ficlets/drabbles set in canon-verse and aus.
Relationships: Dimitri | Dmitry/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 82





	1. how is this okay?

**Author's Note:**

> somewhere between russia and france

“How is this ‘okay’?” Anya asked, as her and Dmitry were squatted down in some unsavory alley in…Poland? In all the lessons Dmitry and Vlad had given her, a geography one wasn’t one. However, she had spent the past ten years with a worn out, overly folded map, staring at all possible routes from Russia to Paris. Maps were one thing, however, and she couldn’t recognize where they were on sight. 

Dmitry turned his head and regarded her from the corner of his eye, “You’re getting awfully picky for a girl who was living under a bridge when I met her.” 

She resisted the urge to give in and roll her eyes, but she did straighten her back, and tip her chin up. “Well, I am a Grand Duchess.” 

He turned his head away again, but not before she saw the beginning of a smile form on his face. She wasn’t certain when catching Dmitry smiling had become more satisfying to her than seeing him scowling, but her feet were asleep and her hands were beginning to numb with cold. 

“Enough of that,” he said, though without a trace of his usual annoyance with her. 

She placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned forward, “What exactly is your plan here?” 

He turned his head again to address her, but then…stopped. His cheek was almost to her lips. She jerked back, previously oblivious to how close they were currently huddled together. She could remember the nights spent at the abandoned palace with him and Vlad, where she would sleep in a cold, abandoned empty room, and pile together all the chairs and various objects to form a barricade against the door. It wasn’t that she actually thought they would try anything. Vlad acted like a kindly uncle towards her, if not sometimes exasperated when her and Dmitry would argue. And Dmitry… well, he always seemed to look through her like she didn’t exist when he wasn’t trying to tell her about her potential past. 

Anya couldn’t quite remember when all these barriers started to breakdown. But she hadn’t survived ten years on the streets of Russia by trusting people, and she was already trusting them more than she could ever remembering trusting anyone before. 

As though he could hear her thoughts (a truly mortifying concept), Dmitry said, “Just trust me.” He said it carelessly, as though he hadn’t survived those same streets of Russia, and hadn’t been on alert when she first came around asking about a way out of Russia. Maybe it was the confidence of living on the streets in the same area all your life. Or the confidence of being a man. 

Then before she could consider it any further, he simply grabbed her hand and pulled her forward, bringing her out into the streets of possibly Poland. It was something he did now, ever since that…moment in St Petersburg with his old friends. She was now quite familiar with the texture of his gloves and the calloused natured of his fingers. 

Anya wanted to ask more questions, and he seemed to sense that about her because he squeezed her hand in warning. They had thousands of miles to go, she could pepper him with questions later. And, despite the patience she had displayed in trying to get to Paris, she was not a very patient person. 

Then her back was against the wall of a building and Dmitry was standing in front of her, with one hand braced against the wall beside her. Her body went rigid and her breath caught, and he leaned in….

And whispered in her ear, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kiss you.” 

She hadn’t even realized it was a kiss she had been anticipating in that moment. (Any previous kisses she had anticipated, had come from people like his old friends, who would grab her by the elbow or try to crowd her space, and she would end that with a nicely placed kick or with the nearest blunt or sharp object she could find. She was very good at finding small places to hide and sleep so they couldn’t try their unpleasantness with her while she was asleep.) She just swallowed and moved her head slightly to acknowledge with a nod. 

It wasn’t that she wanted Dmitry to kiss her, but slightly perplexing that it hadn’t caused her normal gut reaction to fight off the possibility. 

The Dmitry let out a whoop, and she felt herself being listed in the air and being spun around. A signature move by him and Vlad whenever they were overcome with happy emotions, she had observed. Her feet didn’t quite reach the ground when he stopped, and she had enough questions to ask him to last the rest of the trip to Paris. 

“She said yes!” Dmitry yelled out to the crowd, which earned a smattering of applause, and a few more yells of congratulations. 

Anya had no idea what was going on and found herself tucking her face against Dmitry’s shoulder. Then he bustled them out of the crowd, and let her back down on her feet once they were a few streets over, where there were a lot less people milling about. 

They had walked a few feet more before she found words to sputter out, “What—”

He merely raised one eyebrow in return, “I can’t believe you stayed quiet for so long.” 

She shoved at his shoulder, “Dmitry!”

Before she could ask anymore, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a money clip with several impressive bills inside it.

“For the room tonight,” he said, by way of explanation. “We should save the diamond money for Paris.”

“You pick pocketed?!” She wasn’t certain if she should be terrified or impressed that he managed such a feat. 

“Not too loud,” Dmitry warned her, looking around, but the street around them was empty. “It’s the easiest trick I know, because it was the first one I learned.” 

Survival on the streets wasn’t something she could judge, but stealing didn’t seem like a thing to condone either. It was hard to be moral when you were trying to survive.

If she was Anastasia, and had an inheritance, she would give back to the streets she decided. 

“Don’t get us arrested,” she warned him.

He just smiled as he took her hand again, leading back to where they had agreed to meet Vlad.


	2. i don't know what to do now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shortly after they arrive to paris

“I don’t know what to do now,” Dmitry whined- in Russian, Anya was quick to note. “I will never get it.”

“In French, please,” she told him- in French. He put down the book in his hands to shoot her a look. She glanced away quickly, she was still not used to seeing him how he was since they had arrived at the hotel in Paris. 

Gone was the old, not so gently worn layers in Russia. Gone was the old cap that was constantly affixed to his head. And, most of all, was gone the layers of dirt and grime that had covered his skin. 

Cleaning up good was no longer merely a concept to her. 

“You’re not getting it because you don’t want to,” she scolded him, switching back to Russian. “I see you understand in your eyes.” 

He groaned and fell back against the sofa, but didn’t disagree with her. It was much the same when they were doing dancing lessons with Vlad. He would be bad and grumble but it was easy and elegant when he gave up the charade. 

“Enough learning,” Dmitry proclaimed, sitting back up. “We are in Paris, and we have nothing to do for ages. Let’s go out.”

She looked over to the door, “Out where?”

“Anywhere,” he swept his hand out in a wide gesture. “Isn’t everyone saying Paris has a bustling nightlife. Or early afternoon life?”

Honestly, her nerves were so fraught over the potential to meet her actual grandmother the thought of going out to the crowded streets made her stomach flip. But it would be doing the same cooped up in this hotel room. And Dmitry was pouting so handsomely. 

“Fine,” Anya said, and Dmitry stood up, grabbing his jacket from where he had thrown it on the chair. Boys. “But under one condition.”

Dmitry arched an eyebrow, “And what’s that?”

“You know what it is.”

“Ugh, fine,” he said walking over to her and placing his index finger under her chin and tilting her head up. “T’as d’beaux yeux, tu sais?”

She felt a brush creep along her skin, until another hot emotion flashed through her as she realized that he said it in nearly perfect French. “Dmitry!” He jumped back away from her reach. “How—-“

He reached over to grab her hand, and lead her towards the front door instead of towards his own death. “I wouldn’t dare miss all the things you and Vlad say about me when you think I don’t understand.”

She should’ve really learned by now to never trust a con artist.


	3. dimyaweek: never should have let them dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> about six months post-canon

“I thought we had given up any and all crime,” Anya whisper-lectured to Dmitry, but still continued to follow as he lead her through a dubious passage. 

He looked back at her, his smile bright even in the moonlight, “That doesn’t sound like me at all, I believe the words I used is that we would make an honest living.” He came to a stop to climb up some stones, and then reached down to pull her up along him. “I never promised we had to be honest about anything else.” 

She scrunched her nose up at that. Six months since she had turned her back on exposing the fact that Anastasia was alive. Six months of being Anya Sudayev, wife and seamstress. (She got better work than she should, given she lived just outside of Paris but her grandmother and Lily’s connections provided her with an inflated paycheck. She had turned down so much from them, she found she couldn’t really protest this influence.) 

Knowing who she was, and what she had been through, and being able to choose who she got to be for the rest of her life had been a rather freeing experience. 

“Anything else?” She contested. 

“Our work and love is honest,” he corrected. “Anything else is up for grabs.” 

Then he pulled her into a run down, abandoned, but still beautiful ballroom. Well, this was unexpected. She hadn’t known exactly what to expect when he had brought them out after dinner. Just that it would be a surprise. 

“Where are we?” She asked, looking around. 

“I have no idea,” was his slightly concerning answer. “Apparently, Russia isn’t the only place with abandoned palaces.” 

Well, this was a mansion, if one wanted to get technical about it. Which she did not at this exact moment. 

“We have a nice apartment,” she pointed out. It was small, but it was cozy, and warm in the winter. “Or have you done something where we have to go on the run?”

“You ask that so calmly,’ he teased, even though she had. “I realized the other day, we’ve met over a year ago.” 

“Longer than that if you count the parade,” she said, and she did in her more fanciful moments. It was still hard to separate Anya and Anastasia for her, but even harder, she thought, to reconcile that they were one and the same. 

He gave a nod of acknowledgment, “And also about a year since all those dance lessons.” He held out a hand to her, and she placed hers in his. Such a familiar feeling, her palm against his would always bring her back to that sense of home. “And then you never got to use them.” 

Anya gasped and looked around, “Dima, did you bring me here to...dance?”

Dmitry pulled them into waltz position, and then a little closer than what had been taught to them as proper. “It seemed like a terrible thing to let to go to waste, Your Highness.” 

She rolled her eyes, “I think you just miss me kicking you in the shins.” 

“Not at all, you just did that last night in your sleep,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze. 

Anya looked down at his shin in question, though she couldn’t see anything other than the leg of his pants. 

“And what are we going to dance to?” She asked, looking around. “You didn’t pull anyone else in your breaking and entering scheme to play, did you?” 

“And witness this gross display of romanticism?” Dmitry asked, and she smiled- because it was a rather gross display of romanticism. Even if borne out of some sort of misplaced guilt about her birthright. “No, I’ll hum.” 

And then he did, and she let them step a little closer, abandoning all sense of propriety as he pulled her along the empty dance floor. 

Maybe a life of just a little crime wasn’t so bad after all.


	4. dimyaweek: i'd find her again

The first night that it happens, Anya thinks of it as a coincidence. She had finished putting her supplies back into the shed, and secured the door shut tight, grabbing her own meager belongings that she brought to work, and stepped out onto the street, following along the now familiar path to the Yugusov Palace. She tensed slightly when steps fell alongside hers. She thought, for a brief moment, it might be the officer again. The one who seemed to look right through her, and left her with a chill in her bones. But something about the familiar way his shadow falls, before she even looks at him, she knows it’s Dmitry. 

There’s something so strangely distinctive about him, she can feel his presence usually before she knows he’s there. Maybe it came from their shared residence now at the abandoned palace. 

He falls into step with her, even though his stride must be shortened, as he doesn’t get ahead of her really. She wonders what he does during the day, when she’s off street sweeping and he has no one to teach Russian history to. 

Now that she knows him, she can recognize him as the man that some of the girls of Theater Street talked about. They had never really used his name before (and if they would, it wouldn’t narrow it down much. There were Dmitrys and Vlads every block of Russia), but there were some giveaways as to who they met. “When he takes his hat off, oh that hair of his is thicker and more luscious than any Tsarina’s ever were” “He’s so tall and handsome, and those brown eyes of his!” “That dimple by his jaw could get me in more trouble than my bosom ever did”. But they spoke of him with faraway longing, so she felt it was safe to assume he wasn’t with the women of Theater Street during the day. Not that it would matter if he were. 

Apparently he did not laze around the palace, plotting up new Princess lessons for her with Vlad, like she had begun to assume. 

Wordlessly, he had handed her a chunk of bread as they walked. He stared straight ahead, his jaw clean, and no dimple in sight. She ate the bread, and didn’t thank him, because if he wasn’t going to say a word to her, she didn’t have to say anything back. 

It was probably for the best, as when they did speak, they’d be arguing soon enough.

The second night, he caught her just as she was locking up the shed. 

“Oh, you again,” she teased, because she was in a good mood and Dmitry’s normal glower wouldn’t ruin it for her. 

“Funny,” he returned, he was surprisingly light this evening as well. “I was thinking the same thing.” 

Emboldened by his personable behavior, she reached over and grabbed the antonovka he had been fiddling with. “What do you do all day, Dmitry?” 

“Survive,” he said. Was there anything more dramatic than a Russian? 

The answer was no, because she let out a frustrated growl, and stomped off in front of him. She didn’t have to look behind her to know he probably had an amused smirk on his face and was having no trouble trailing behind her. 

She clenched the antonovka in her hand but resisted the urge to throw it. She was hungry, after all. 

By the fourth night happened, when his footsteps joined hers on the streets of St Petersburg (no, Petrograd, no, Leningrad now- was there ever such a sign of Russia’s ongoing identity crisis than the name changes of this old city?) headed back to the palace, she is suspicious. 

“I don’t need you to protect me,” she grinds out between clenched teeth. 

His smile is quick and loose, “I never thought you did.” 

She decides to not pursue the fight, and walks the rest of the way with him in silence. She is, after all, practical and right now they’re headed in the same direction. 

Anya does, however, find Vlad later in the evening, when Dmitry has gone out to ‘survive’ again, and confronts him. 

His response, however, surprises the anger out of her. 

“Dmitry walks you home?” He seemed pleased by this, but most of all he appears surprised by it. Vlad lets out a little giggle, “I knew there was a gentleman hidden deep in him!” 

Anya blinked, “You’re not making him?” 

“Darling Anya,” Vlad said, pouring himself a drink. “Do you think I can make that boy do anything he doesn’t want to do?” 

“But why?” 

“Oh, he’s a complex being,” Vlad told her, waving off her question. “I can’t even begin to understand that boy, just humor him. It makes my days so much more bearable when you’re getting along.” 

She supposed not going out of their way to antagonize each other might be a more pleasant way to spend their time. It wouldn’t hurt to try it. 

So the next time he steps next to her, Anya just smiles in greeting. He regards her with some suspicion, but then shrugs and reaches into his bag and pulls out some bread he splits in half and gives her one of the pieces. 

And the next night, and the night after that, it continues, and she finds herself looking for him at the end of her shift. He never appears from the same direction twice. But once she spots him out of the corner of her eye, every time she is quick to avert her gaze so he wouldn’t know she was looking for him.


	5. dimyaweek: fairytale gets a spin

This parade was going to be the one. Anastasia decided on it a week ago, during the last of her dress fittings, as the seamstress stuck her with pins and instructed her to breathe in this way and then don’t breathe at all. It had been a secret tradition for ten years now. As secret as something in front of thousands of people could be. 

“You fidget too much,” her oldest sister, Olga, scolded her. 

In her opinion,Olga did not fidget enough. 

“You’re eighteen now,” her second oldest sister, Tatiana, chimed in. “You should’ve lost some of that youthful exuberance by now.”

Anastasia turned towards the next sister in line, Maria, and whispered loudly, “Ah yes, you’re all such fine old maidens of advanced years now. I must have forgotten.”

Maria giggled in response, because she was twenty and hadn’t lost all of her youthful exuberance quite yet. Though she did try to train her face into a scowl when Olga gave her the Look that so eerily mirrored their father’s. 

“Nastya, you mustn’t tease her,” Maria said. “This may be Olga’s last chance to mother us before she goes off to have a family of her own.”

Anastasia crossed herself in prayer for Olga’s future family. It earned her another lecture, but it helped pass the time quickly until it was time to get in line for the parade. 

Once outside in the too hot sun for the current dress she was stuffed in, Anastasia found herself fidgeting with the opening of her glove as her eyes scanned the crowd for a familiar face. 

She had been eight the first time she had seen him. He had been skinny in a way she now recognized from her work at the hospital as malnourished, his face carried a light layer of dirt, but a brilliant smile underneath it. He had been small and could easily work his way through the crowd and the guards. It had been memorizing. Then he had called her name and bowed and she found herself smiling back. 

At home, as the youngest girl, she was told she got plenty of attention. That had altered and changed over the years with the arrival of Alexei and then his illness over the years. In public, she found her and Maria were often interchangeable to the public. It was not something to get focused on, she was certain, but the individual attention had been nice. 

The next year, she hadn’t expected him. But there he had been. A little taller, even more less clean, and his eyes a little sadder. But they had connected and he bowed and she had smiled. 

He was no longer a boy, and she thought this might be the last year she saw him. If she saw him at all, she had to remind herself. The year before he had only shown up at the end. A quick bow to her and he had disappeared before her returning smile had even fully formed. 

He had grown up to be rather handsome. More clean, much more tall, and still could make his way through the crowd and guards with a surprising grace and effortlessness. 

None of the other men her family paraded in front of her came close to looking like him. She wondered who he was when he was not at this particular parade. 

Anastasia knew he couldn’t be someone suitable, but that had never mattered to her. As it was, she knew people had begun to whisper the same of her and her sisters. Thus, Olga’s current rush to try to get to the altar. 

Then she could see the familiar head of hair amidst the crowd. She took stock of where her family was. Alexei was in his place, up front, with their parents. Olga was focused on the crowd on the right, and Tatiana on the left. Maria was… turning away because she knew her youngest sister was up to something and wanted plausible deniability. 

Anastasia took her chance and ducked out, ten years of observing the guards, the crowd and the boy taking her feet where she needed to go. 

She found him at the edge of the crowd, and followed him towards an empty alcove. 

He kneeled into a bow before her, “Your highness.”

Anastasia smiled back at him as he stood back up, “I don’t know a name to address you by.”

He looked around, as though it was a secret to impart before saying, “Dmitry.”

Of course, he had to have one of the most common names in all of Russia. It would make him near impossible to find in most cases. 

“Truly?”

Dmitry nodded, “I would not have you call me by any other.”

Anastasia stepped forward, bold as ever, the heels of her slippers not bringing her close at all to his height, so she put her hands on his shoulders and brought him down to her and kissed him. And she felt herself being lifted in the air as he kissed her back. 

The feeling of your soul finding its missing piece locking into place. 

Anya woke up with a start, but not a scream for once. She sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as the dream washed over her. She never knew what was more jarring- the dreams in which she saw her sisters bloodied and ravaged as they had been the last time she saw them, or these ones where they were whole and still so very alive for her. 

She wiped away the water that had formed in her eyes, regardless, letting the feeling of the dream settle over her. It made her ache with a certain kind of loneliness, but overall she decided she felt good about it. 

“Hey,” Dmitry said, sitting up behind her, and felt his arms wrap around her. Any tension the dream may have caused melted away from her. His lips brushed her cheek, and she smiled. “Bad dream?”

“No,” she responded. “A good one this time.”

He pulled them gently back onto the bed, and she turned her body so her cheek rested against his chest. Her ear pressed against the steady beat of his heart. 

“What was the dream?”

It was so much, but she just told him the most important part of it. “You and me, always ending up together, no matter the circumstances.” 

“Of course,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head, already halfway back to sleep. 

She played with the folds of his tank top, and listened to the even beat of his heart as her mind found its way back into a now dreamless sleep.


	6. dimyaweek: it's fate that brought us here

Vlad had left a little less than two hours before, and then about an hour after he left the snow had fallen. It had begun slowly, just little pieces of snow falling in the air, and disappearing along the ground. Anya had watched it from one of the windowsills in the hallway, a vague sense of familiarity creeping over her from the view. She had been in snow before, that she could remember. But it was usually out in the bitter cold, seeking shelter until it had passed. She didn’t recognize this wave of nostalgia that accompanied the view of the snow falling from a palace window. Then it had begun falling quicker and heavier and before her eyes the ground disappeared and the snow rose higher. The window grew colder. She tugged the blanket around her shoulders some more but it was no help.

Anya did what she had been avoiding doing ever since Vlad had left, she slid off the windowsill, and walked down the hall towards the kitchen. Her and Dmitry, while no longer at each other’s throats, had worked out a system of avoidance unless necessary. Whenever Vlad was gone while they were both in, they would go to their corners. 

She found him in the main dining hall area, fiddling with the fire. He glanced up when she came into the room, but then went back to fiddling with the fire. 

Anya moved her skirts so they weren’t near the fire, and sat on the floor, next to Dmitry. “Do you think Vlad will make it back okay?”

“He won’t try,” Dmitry answered. “He’ll find other accommodations until this settles down.” 

She nodded and silence fell over them again. 

She stared at the flame he had stirred up, it was low to the ground. “Is that all we got?” 

Dmitry shook his head, “No, but I’m trying to ration it because I don’t know how long this storm will last.” 

Spoken like someone who had survived long and unpredictable Russian winters. She had never asked much about where and what Dmitry had come from, but Vlad’s words from their first meeting echoed back to her. 

She could not see him opening up to her, obliging her current state of boredom. 

“Do we have any food?” She had eaten breakfast that morning, nothing too substantial but it could hold her for the rest of the day or so if the storm did not break. 

Anya had survived on less, though both Dmitry and Vlad were good at getting at least a meal and a half for all of them a day. More in storage, but she knew some of that was for currency. 

“Some,” Dmitry answered, and he shifted so he was sitting instead of squatting on the ground near her. “I made some tyurya for you.” 

He reached around to the other side of the fireplace and came back with a bowl. 

“Oh,” she said and took a sip from it. They were good at supplying food but she still wasn’t used to the intimacy of having food actually prepared for her. “Thank you.”

He shrugged it off like any other accidental kindness he did for her, “We all have to eat, comrade.”

The last was said in mockery of the crisp accent the soldier in the square had. Such a warm term made so cold by the current government. 

She had never known another government. What a strange concept, as she sat on this cold, dirty floor trying to discover if she was the Grand Duchess Anastasia when she had no memories of anything or anyone but the Bolshevik and their reign. Allegedly, her family had ruled Russia for 300 years and with the exception of small children, most people and the generations before them had known nothing by imperial rule. 

What a fake she was. She felt it all the way down to her bones. 

“Did you eat?” She asked. She attempted to eat slowly, in case she needed to share. He might make her mad sometimes- a lot of the time, but it seemed unfair to make him go hungry. 

“Yes, earlier when you were watching the snow.”

Anya looked up, she hadn’t realized he had been aware of how she took up her time when they weren’t in the same space. 

She wondered what it would’ve been like had she not trekked across Russia all by herself. If she had someone like Dmitry by her side. Or Vlad. 

Dmitry cleared his throat as she finished off the last of the soup. “So, your great-grandm-“

Anya held up her hand, “Please, no lessons tonight. The world is covered in snow and I am cold and tired. Let’s talk about something else.”

Surprisingly, Dmitry nodded in agreement. She had braced herself for an argument. But perhaps he was cold and tired as well and sick of talking about the life and times of Anastasia Nikolaevnia. 

“Are you cold?” He asked, and she nodded because she had just told him so. He leaned forward and she expected him to stoke the fire higher, but instead he pulled the cap off his head and set it upon hers. “This will help keep some of the warmth in, I think.”

Anya lifted her hands up to adjust the cap slightly, so it wouldn’t fall forward on her head and obstruct her view. She opened her mouth to say thank you again, but he had already stood up. 

“I’ll be back.” He announced and he was in motion again 

This was the Dmitry she was most familiar with. The one constantly in motion, constantly talking, constantly arguing. A still Dmitry unnerved her. 

He pulled in bedding from the other room, pulling off some of the old cushions that were rotting away for pillows and throwing a small blanket over them. 

“We will probably have to sleep in here tonight,” he told her. “I will add a little more to the fire to keep it going all night.”

Right. They’d have to stay in the same room together because it wasn’t rational to force the other to stay in a cold room away from the fire. Maybe this was the true test to see if they could not kill each other. 

He worked on the fire and crawled over to the bedding and sat on the edge of it. 

“You’ll get the part closer to the fire,” Dmitry instructed her. 

“Planning on setting me on fire?” Anya asked, half suspicious and half teasing. 

He smiled at her. Not as sarcastic as his quick grins were when he teased. She wondered what devil he sold his soul too to keep his teeth so bright and straight after living on the street. “Not until we run out of food at least.”

“You’re a horrid man,” she said, without any real ire. 

“It’s part of my charming nature,” he motioned for her to scoot and she slid over to the part of the bed that was closer to the fire. 

“I’ve yet to see any part of your nature that is particularly charming,” she threw back at him. 

Dmitry shook his head and laid down against the bedding. Closer to where the edge met the floor than the middle. 

They were further apart than they were in their dancing lessons, but this felt stranger and more intimate. 

Anya rolled onto her side, so she was facing him. He was lying on his back with his arms behind his head. He wore many layers but she could see the faint puffs of air coming from his mouth as he breathed. 

“Are you comfortable?”

He turned his head to look at her. He looked younger and softer from this angle. Maybe she could have liked him in another lifetime. “Stop fussin’.”

“But Dmitry, if you die from the cold, how will I get to Paris?” Anya asked, widening her eyes in innocence. She had the diamond tucked away but it could only get her so far without the proper documents and escape plan. 

Dmitry chuckled and rolled his eyes, but he lifted his body up and moved over several more inches. “Does this put your mind to ease?”

She considered it, “Blow some air from your mouth.”

He did and this time she could not see it. 

She nodded and he rearranged the sheets around him again. 

“Try not to roll into the fire,” he warned her. 

“Stop fussin’,” she mocked but did look behind her and moved another two inches away from it, just in case. 

She could almost reach out and touch his elbow now. She closed her eyes now satisfied by the knowledge that neither of them were likely to die of exposure overnight. Though she still had her concerns over Vlad, but had no control over that. 

Anya awoke some hours later to find herself face to face with Dmitry, his eyes still closed in sleep. She managed to not gasp from the surprising closeness of it and closed her eyes again to avoid any awkwardness if he were to awake. 

A little while later, she heard him make a noise and roll back onto his back. She listened as he got up, gathering things and starting the fire up again. She rolled over away from the fire and sat up. 

He looked bleary and sleepy, his normally well kept hair sticking up slightly from the night. 

“The snow has stopped,” Dmitry told her. “We can go looking for Vlad after breakfast if he doesn’t show up soon.” 

She just nodded and closed her eyes again, as Dmitry continued on with his work. They didn’t have to wait much longer, as Vlad made his dramatic re-entrance less than an hour later.


	7. clothes

When he’s younger, and first orphaned, Dmitry uses them as another layer of blankets. When his father was first arrested, no one came to the apartment for months and he could continue on living there as though nothing had changed. The neighbors turned a blind eye to it, they too had relatives arrested for their beliefs, as well as killed for speaking out against the Tsar. “It won’t always be like this, Dima,” his father would promise. His father always spoke with such confidence that Dmitry couldn’t help but believe everything he said. He spent the rest of his life so far trying to emulate that confidence his father had projected. 

His father wasn’t wrong, but nor was he right in the end. It wouldn’t always be like that and the Tsar would fall, but it would always be like that because a new oppressive government would just take its place. In between these regimes was a sliver of hope that was extinguished by the Bolsheviks. 

He doesn’t even know when his father dies, just like he never knew when he was arrested. A neighbor stops him one day, after two days of not seeing his father (he was always out working, it seemed, and they frequently missed each other) and mentions the scene three days before where his father was arrested and brought to a labor camp. He finds out his father had died when he comes home one day to find a lock on the apartment. He breaks in through the window and collects his meager belongings and onward he goes. Just as his father taught him. 

As he grows bigger and taller, but never as big nor as tall as his father, Dmitry slips them on, having long outgrown his childhood clothes. The bottoms are rolled up and the seamstress on Theater St pins the hem for him, the sleeves are long and fall over his palms. He no longer looks like a boy, but he can’t bring himself to see himself as a man yet either. 

He’s almost twenty when he hears of the downfall of the Romanovs. Rumors abound. Nicholas abdicated under the new regime but then yet another took over and spilled blood. Some say the daughters escaped, and many claim they saw them driving along the German countryside. Borders continue to close. New rumors abound that the Bolsheviks slaughtered all of them, including the pets and few servants they had with them. 

Dmitry thinks of his own dead father, by the indifferent hand of Nicholas’ rule and can’t bring himself to feel any sympathy for the Tsar. There is an ache in his chest for the servants, the pets and a pair of blue eyes more clear than the sky on a June day and a smiler brighter than the sun. The murder of the innocents in addition to the Tsar is how he knows this rule won’t be much better than the last. 

Years go by and his pant legs have to be unrolled and re-pinned. He’s no longer tall and gangly, but mostly just tall and lean. 

Dmitry finds he has a special talent for seeing the potential underneath the dirt and dust of the garbage passed around the square. He collects these discarded artifacts, restores them and resells them underneath the noses of the officers now installed on every street corner. 

He has no trouble making enemies, but he’s even better at making friends. He was raised underground in Petersburg and there’s a code amongst them. A tentative honor amongst the thieves all the governments have made of them now. 

These streets have become his parents and it’s inhabitants his extended family. They look out for each other. He begins to feel restless and watched. The hem of his pants drag along the ground now, no more pins to be let out. 

He saves a man from the firing squad. A rash act of kindness that attaches itself to him. He finds himself with a different sort of family member. Half uncle, half younger brother. Vlad is different than his father in the way he has stars in his eyes when he speaks of the old imperial rule. He talks longingly of luxuries and women. Dmitry had no nostalgia for the Tsar, and women were easy enough to come by when he wanted, but some of the luxuries Vlad spoke of didn’t seem so bad. 

Now some days he wondered what he would be like without the layer of grime and the city all over him. Of fresh clothes and of rich food, rather than the beans and broth based soups he had known. 

He no longer felt so much like his father's son except for in the morning when he pulled on his father’s old jacket and remembered where he came from. 

The jacket was attached to the same invisible thread that the city held onto him by. More borders closed. 

Eventually he’d have to leave or die, and he wasn’t certain who he would be if the former happened or if he’d leave this city, his father’s clothes and ideologies behind him and become someone completely unrecognizable. Or if he could merge the past and future together in a way his father had never been able to. 

His father would tell him to keep looking ahead, keep moving forward. So he did.


	8. light fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somewhere in between learn to do it and my petersburg

Dmitry was hiding something from Anya, she became more and more certain of it every day. The fact that Dmitry had secrets wasn’t what bothered her, she had her own tucked away in the pocket of her jacket. One that could either save her or get her killed. 

The fact he was keeping something new from her, truly bothered her far more than it should. So she did what any rational, sane person would do. She followed him. 

The palace was vast and most of it was boarded up. Decaying and abandoned, much like the royalty and aristocracy it used to hold. Russia was nothing if not symbolic these days. 

He went out to the far west wing, past anything inhabitable. She knew he sold stolen goods down on Theater St, but she couldn’t imagine anyone coming out here to buy or trade anything. 

Unless he plucked exit papers from trees. The ridiculous thought almost made her giggle but she managed to stop herself. 

As he came to a stop, she held back as she watched him reach into his bag and pull something out and scatter it along the ground. 

Anya could not see anything from her viewpoint. She was too short, too far away. 

“You’re not as stealthy as you think you are,” Dmitry called over to her, not even looking in her direction. 

Well, that was disappointing. 

Anya picked up her skirts and walked over to where he was. “How long did you know I was following you?” 

Dmitry bent down on the ground, offering more food to the kittens he had been feeding. It was an unexpected kindness, given how reluctant he had been to share his food with a human when she first showed up. 

Or maybe it was entirely in character for him to prefer to help animals over humans. 

The biggest cat, most likely the mother, regarded Anya with suspicion, and then rubbed up against Dmitry who scratched behind her ears. 

“I always know where you are,” Dmitry responded, as an orange kitten climbed up his pant leg. “You’re very difficult to ignore, I don’t know how you made it all the way across Russia alive.”

Anya settled in the grass, a safe distance away, the mother still regarding her warily as she pushed her head against Dmitry’s hand over and over again. 

“I’ve never tried to annoy anyone before you,” Anya told him, with a smile. “I’m happy I’ve been so successful.” 

Dmitry reached over to remove a gray kitten that had made its way to his shoulder. He moved it to his knee. “If only you were so good at all things you tried to do.”

She let out an offended gasp and shoved at his arm, earning a hiss from the cat. “You stepped on my foot first! I am a great Grand Duchess.” 

He laughed, “Certainly the best one I’ve ever trained.” 

“Do you do this often?” 

His head turned sharply to look at her, the green of the grass reflected in the brown of his eyes. “Train Grand Duchesses?”

“Make cats fall in love with you and feed kittens,” Anya told him. An orange and white kitten hobbled it’s way over to her, much less wary of her than its mother. 

“Of course not,” he mumbled, meaning that he did. 

There was something sweet about it, so she pretended not to notice the pink currently creeping up his neck. 

“I bet you name them, too,” Anya said, holding her hand out so the kitten could approach her on its own terms. 

Something about being around animals felt like second nature to her. 

“So you won’t mind if I name them instead,” she told him. 

“I won’t but she might,” Dmitry pointed out, scratching the mother under her chin. 

“I’ll just name this one then” she said as the kitten used her jacket to knead against. Then she said the first name that came to mind. “Kot’ka.” 

Dmitry was looking at her peculiarly and like he wanted to say something but he turned away instead. 

“What?” She asked as the cat and kittens left him and he stood up. 

“It’s…” Dmitry offered his hand to her. She removed the kitten from her lap, and it ran back to its mother. “Nothing, never mind.”

Anya placed her hand in his and felt herself being pulled up. 

“You look at me so strangely sometimes,” she commented. 

He tugged on her hand, pulling her forward on the field. “You are a strange girl.” 

Dmitry let go of her hand, and placed his hand on the small of her back. 

“Does Vlad know?” 

“That you’re a strange girl? I imagine so by now,” he said and it took her a moment to realize he was teasing. “About the cats? No.”

“It can be our secret,” she promised. 

And then he was looking at her in that peculiar way again. 

And something about having a secret with Dmitry made her heart speed up for some reason.


	9. vampire au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vampire au setin canon time

“Child,” Vlad says softly, placing a steadying hand on Anya’s shoulder. “You’re so weak, when was the last time you fed?” 

He maneuvers her over to a chair so she’s sitting down. The room spins around her. “I found a rat three days ago.”

When she had arrived in Leningrad, she had been weak from the long travel, she had taken a portion of her precious savings and bought one of the girls who sold their bodies in more ways that one. She had bitten into the one called Marfa’s inner thigh and drank for strength and pleasure. Marfa had licked the inside of Anya’s mouth clean after they were done. 

She really couldn’t afford such luxuries, so she had been spacing out her feedings to the animals she came across. The military presence in Leningrad was strong, she hadn’t seen anything similar since she had left Moscow. The prostitutes held a monopoly on blood, the Bolsheviks were ruthless in ridding themselves of the Romanov folly, as they called the remaining vampire population. 

“That’s no way to live,” Vlad reminds her, as if she wouldn’t already be aware or have a choice in the matter. “Dmitry- give Anya some sustenance.” 

Dmitry, tall and young and so healthy, she had been steadily ignoring him since she got there other than to make her plea for safe passage out of Russia. There’s a burning hunger inside her when Vlad makes his command. 

Dmitry looks offended by the suggestion, stepping back. “I’m not a soup kitchen for vampires.”

“Have some compassion,” Vlad reprimands him. “I’d offer up my own but alas…”

Feeding from another vampire did not help in this matter. 

“And yet I am once again punished for the fact you actively choose this,” Dmitry grumbles, but he rolls up his sleeve. She sits on her hands to keep herself from grabbing him and feeding without the official offer. He looks at Anya warily, as though he didn’t quite trust her. “Do you know how to control yourself?” 

“Don’t worry you’re not that tempting,” she lies. 

“I’ll be back in a few moments to make sure you’re not dead,” Vlad promises Dmitry before leaving the room. 

Dmitry rolls his eyes, and she’s not certain if it’s at Vlad, at her or at both of their comments to him. 

He offers her the inside of his wrist, and she frees her hands to hold it in place as her fangs come down and sink into his flesh. She sips slowly, carefully, fighting for control over her hunger. 

She can hear him sigh, impatient for his part in helping her to be over, “We are going to be here forever if you’re going to do it like that.”

She sucks harder, bringing her drinking up to a more normal pace. Anya feels his pulse jump suddenly, his heart beat racing and it sends a surge of blood through his veins. 

She wonders if he always gets turned on when vampires feed from him. But when she retracts her fangs back in, his gaze is heavy, but also bewildered and he averts his gaze as she licks the excess blood off his wrist. The effect is instant, and she can feel her strength return back to her, an extra electric current thrumming through her from his blood she tries to ignore. 

Dmitry steps away from her, rolling his sleeve back down, still not meeting her gaze. 

“Better?” He inquires. 

“Much,” she says, standing up, as Vlad returns to the room, handing Dmitry a glass of water and hunk of cheese. 

Vlad politely ignores the tension in the room, “What were you saying about needing to get to Paris, and your name, my dear?” 

“They called me Anya,” she says. “I was found by the side of the road about a decade ago, no memories. Just a hunger and no idea who I was or how I got there. Just a memory of someone telling me to go to Paris.” 

“You don’t know who you are?” Dmitry asks, his curiosity peaked enough that he’s looking at her again. 

He and Vlad exchange a look, and Vlad steps forward, “We may have a way to get you to Paris after all…” 

It’s Anya’s turn to feel wary as the men lead her into another room and into the plan of escape.


	10. punch

Dmitry made it all the way to the bridge before waves of regret wash over him and his feet send him back to the building where Marie lives. He doesn’t know why but it feels like he owes himself a sense of closure of seeing Anya fully transformed as Anastasia, proper. 

He gets to the building, walking towards the room where the press conference is set to happen, planning on slipping into the back, seeing his fill and disappearing forever. (Once glance will never be enough, but it’s the lie he needs to tell himself to keep his feet moving.) 

He barely makes it inside before the largest red dress he’s ever seen in his entire life. 

“D-dima?” It takes a moment for him to place Anya. Anastasia. “What are you-“

“What are you-“ he begins as well. She’s not supposed to be here. Well she is in this building but she’s supposed to be in a press conference. “Is the press conference over?”

“I didn’t-“ she begins but he’s distracted looking over her shoulder at a familiar figure. 

That definitely shouldn’t be here. 

“Is that the Bolshevik?” Dmitry asks because he’s so thrown off he can’t even remember the stupid officer’s name. “With a gun?”

What the fuck, had he followed them there? If he was there in Paris and with a gun and within close distance to Anya that only meant one thing and that was—

“Dim- Dmitry, it’s fine you don’t have to!” Anya calls after him, her heels heavy on the floor and the weight of her dress slowing her down. “I-“ 

It doesn’t matter what sort of resolution the two of them had made, he just sees red- and not just because of how big Anya’s dress is. 

He taps the Bolshevik on the shoulder, and then man turns around and Dmitry’s first lands on his nose with a rather satisfying crack. 

It’s worth the pain that shoots through his hand afterwards. 

“You absolutely idiot,” Anya says, but she’s laughing as she’s saying it, cradling his hand with one of hers and pulling him down with the other. Her mouth finding his and now he knows for certain one last look won’t sustain him. 

He’s going to have to look at her every single day of his life before that can even begin to happen.


	11. cinderella au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just realized i never uploaded this on here this one is heavily inspired by “an offer from a gentleman” by julia quinn which is based on cinderella

Anastasia Romanov’s face was beginning to ache and she was genuinely concerned that this expression, rather than the others her mother had warned her about, was the one her face was going to freeze as. A permanent, creepy smile on her face. She looked around for one of her sisters. They had to be around here somewhere, though truthfully one could slip out and no one would be able to tell the difference. She had been called Olga twice, Tatiana once, and Maria four times already. And one of the Romanov daughters, countless other times. 

She loved her sisters but wasn’t enamored with the concept that they were all interchangeable. Even though it was a masquerade and she was forced the admit that it did make it a little harder to tell them apart. 

Although...what if she were the sister that disappeared? It was a masquerade and technically no one was supposed to recognize her. 

Those Romanov eyes! People would exclaim after they guessed wrong which sister she was but correctly that she was a Romanov. Next masquerade she’d wear colored contacts. 

She slipped out onto the terrace, the secret one where guests weren’t supposed to know about. However, someone obviously did because she bumped into an unfamiliar man as soon as she did so. 

He wore a dark suit, maybe black or maybe a deep blue. The shadows of the terrace made it hard to see clearly. His dark hair was slicked back, and he had nearly a foot on her. 

“Sorry!” She immediately exclaimed, though he was the one trespassing on her family’s terrace. “I didn’t realize anyone else was out here.”

“My apologies,” he returned, and he spoke in Russian unlike the French of most of the other guests. “It’s hard to get a moment alone in that ballroom.”

She was intrigued, though most of the guests could and did speak Russian in there. They just choose to show off in French. 

Her parents hated when she spoke the native tongue. It made her too careless, too informal, they claimed. 

But tonight, she switched back to Russian. 

“I know,” she said, and his eyes lit up when she spoke Russian. She wanted to demand what he was doing out here on her parents private terrace but something held her back. 

“I thought everyone in St Petersburg had forgotten how to speak Russian,” he teased, and took a step closer to her. His suit was of dark blue, she could see that now. His eyes were either green or brown. 

“She’s too beautiful to ever forget,” Anastasia signed. 

“I agree,” he said looking right at her. 

Something about his tone made her blush. 

She opened her mouth to ask who he was, but he beat her to the punch. 

“What is your name?”

“An-“ she cleared her throat. Could it be he did t recognize her as Anastasia or a Romanov? “Anya. I’m Anya.”

He smiled at that and dimples appeared by his jaw. She wondered who he was because no suitor her family had parades in front of her had looked like him. 

“Anya,” he repeated and she liked the way he said this name that wasn’t actually her own. “I think it suits you.”

“How so?” She was moved to ask, given it wasn’t actually her name. 

Maybe she was Anya in another life. Where she wasn’t so restricted by who her family was and how much she loved them. 

He shrugged, “Just a feeling. But it’s short, and a bit spunky.”

She smiled at that, because she had just the slightest reputation as the family trouble maker. 

“I see I’ve hit the mark.”

“At least close to it,” she said. Then, feeling bold and informal, took a step closer to him. “Would you like to dance.”

He looked like he was going to refuse her, and she deflated slightly. Maybe she had been quick to read into things when he didn’t immediately lump her in with her family. 

“Would like to and am able to are two entirely different things,” he admitted, sheepishly. 

“You don’t know how to dance?” Even more intriguing. He spoke Russian and didn’t know how to dance. She wondered who he was and what family he belonged to. But also realized in this moment it didn’t really matter who either of them were. 

“Not a single step,” he said. “I’m a bit ungraceful.”

“Then we will just stay out here,” she decided, “And I will just have to teach you.”

He looked over his shoulder but there was no one around to bother them. “And if we get caught?”

She arranged his hands in position before stepped into the embrace, “Isn’t half the fun in not knowing if you’ll get caught or not?”

Anastasia-no, right now she was Anya- could feel his laughter, in the way his shoulder shook. “I think you are exactly the right person to spend this party with, Anya.” 

She grinned at that, a natural one this time. “Can you hear the music?”

He tilted his head, “A little bit.”

“A little bit is all we need,” Anya told him. “And we do counts of four.”

It was a little awkward and uncoordinated at first. With her leading him to teach him to lead, and there were a few stepped on toes (hers) and one kicked shin (his). But eventually they were swept up into a waltz on the terrace. 

She felt breathless and giddy and she was wondering if this was the way her sisters felt with all the boys that came to court them and the feeling they kept pushing her towards. 

Her companion got a devilish look on his face, at least the lower half of his face and she felt her self being lifted up and spin around. He placed her back on the ground, as she laughed. 

She should hide away more at her parents parties if this was the company she would find there. 

Anya looked up at him to find him staring at her with an intense expression on his face. She knew what Anastasia was supposed to do in such a situation, but she also instinctively knew what Anya would do. 

She raised up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his. Hoping she wasn’t about to face rejection or that she wasn’t overstepping boundaries. 

There was a slight hesitation on his part but then his hands were on her hips and he was kissing her back. 

Her first kiss and she didn’t even know his name. Oh God, she still didn’t even know his name. She kept getting distracted from asking him about it. 

She pulled away to ask, and got distracted by the bell signaling that it was midnight. 

“Oh! The unmasking!” She exclaimed. Her parents would kill her if she wasn’t in the ballroom, right up at the front with her sisters in the next few seconds. 

He looked equally distracted, looking over his shoulder again. “I have to go, I’m late.”

Her attention snapped back to him, “What?”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Anya,” he said and sounded sincere. With a light kiss pressed to her lips, he climbed over the railing of the terrace and disappeared. 

She could hear her name- her real name- being called from the hall and she slipped back into the house. Back towards her sisters and her family. 

Her lips still felt the sensation of being kissed and she looked back over her shoulder but the shadows of the night had taken him. She could see something on the terrace- maybe a glove? Not a white dress glove like some men wore tonight, but like a workers glove or a winters one. She slipped back on the terrace and tucked it into her dress. She could examine it later. 

Anastasia fell back into the crowd of her family. 

Who was he?


	12. p&p au excerpt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: excerpt from a pride and prejudice dimya au

“They say,” Vlad Popov announces in a conspiral whisper to his wards, as though they are not currently in the privacy of their own homes, “That Alexander Palace has been purchased by the second eldest Romanov daughter.” 

Vlad has big dreams for himself and bigger dreams for all the orphans he’s taken in the past few years. There’s currently four of them- Marfa, Dmitry, Paulina and Dunya. 

Marfa and Dmitry exchange a look. Vlad always told him he only took them in so he could marry them off to collect their spouses funds so he could live off all of them in his old age. They allow him this delusion and don’t point out that it’s because of Vlad’s stupidly big and soft heart. 

“Maybe she’ll fall in love with one of you,” Vlad says, meaning Marfa and Dmitry, the older of the two. He thinks about it some more. “Probably her.” 

Dmitry shouldn’t take offense to this but, “Hey!” 

“She has a better personality,” Vlad points out plainly. 

Marfa shrugs in return. 

Then, pats him on the shoulder, “She has three other sisters, Mitya, perhaps I’ll put in a good word for you after she falls madly in love with me.” 

Dmitry shoves at her gently. He can’t imagine being impressed with anyone as high and mighty as a Romanov.


	13. tumblr prompt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "theres's a real creep at the club trying to hit me up righ now and you look pretty fit so pls pretend to be my date so he can leave" with dimya?

“It’s real easy,” Marfa had explained to her as she did Anya’s make up. “Just find someone less creepy than the person hitting on you- guy or girl, and just pretend to be with them for a few moments and they’ll leave you alone. If they don’t, then find me and I’ll deck them.” 

“I know how to throw a punch,” Anya had protested. 

She did, but it didn’t seem as much of an issue as Marfa thought it would be. And then she had gotten separated from her friends and the men pounced. 

It was a bit unnerving, but mostly she didn’t act interested and they left her alone but there was this one guy that had been eyeing her for the past fifteen minutes and she was trying to get out of his line of sight while looking for any of her friends- Marfa, Polly or Dunya, and not giving him an opportunity for an opening. 

She didn’t want to rely on plan B and she really didn’t want to have to go to Plan C- she could throw a punch but her skin was sensitive and bruised and swelled easily. 

But the guy must smell her vulnerability because he starts making his way to her.

It’s really out of instinct that she zeroes in on a guy- one who hasn’t been staring at her creepily all night and doesn’t give her bad vibes just being near him and grasps his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, he’s a lot taller than her and she’s trying to use that to her advantage to disappear in the crowd. He turns slightly and does the job for her. “That guy has been staking me out and I’d prefer not to deal with his rejection of my rejection.” 

“Sensible,” he says, and she looks up to really see him for the first time. Of course she’d end up with the hottest guy in the bar. She hopes the dim light is enough to hide her flush of embarrassment. “Are you here alone?” 

Anya shakes her head, “With friends but I misplaced them and apparently it’s open season on me.” 

“Need an escort?” He asks her, his smile brings out a dimple in his chin and he might need protection from her. 

She smiles back at him, “If you don’t mind.” 

To be honest, she wouldn’t mind being lost with him a little while longer. 

“I’m Dmitry,” he offers, maneuvering them through the crowd a lot easier than it had been for her on her own. 

“Anastasia,” she returns. “Or Anya. I go by either.” 

They finally find Marfa and Dunya in a booth in the back room, causing Marfa to not so discreetly arch an eyebrow at her. 

Anya asks Dmitry to join them, and he accepts. He never lets go of her hand for the rest of the night.


End file.
